To Heiress, From Lushy
by Group Hugs For Everyone
Summary: The Petrelli's are at it again, and this time they've invited Petrelli Heiress from FFN to see. Merry Christmas, dear. Have a very Happy New Year.


It was awkward.

And not the kind of awkward as in sexual tension, or pressed for time, or that guy next to you on subway is really sweaty and coughing and you're wondering if he has the flu awkward. Just…awkward. There really was—is, maybe, because it's still kinda awkward—no other word for it. Awkward was it was, what it is, what always will be. And that won't fade with time, because people still blush and fumble and fluster over _memories_. But is that what it will be in the end? A memory?

People like to say that memories don't fade like a picture, but they do. The old will almost always forget, and then what do those people have left? Not pictures to remind them, or people to stand by them, or memories to exist. Those memories were…inside a little jar. But the jar eventually breaks, and then the memories scatter and people are too old to catch them again. Too weak.

So what is this, then? The awkward tension between wrong and right that so mangles and clouds judgment?

His mother said that it would be fine, that this was simply a bit of closure. And, sure, the man had agreed willingly and came into their household and did not throw a single punch, vase, or telekinetic cut to the forehead.

No. Sylar had stayed at their home relatively quietly, with a small grin on his face, during the holidays. Peter was both disgusted and pleased. He had always wanted to believe that there was good in people, but Sylar and diminished all hope for that in moments. He…tried. He did. He tried to find the good, find the hope, find anything. And, honestly, he thought that there might be something there if Nathan was in Sylar's body.

He thought—dammit!—he thought there was salvation. Salvation through the death of his brother. Like Christ on the cross, the death of Nathan would bring hope and light into Sylar's world and—okay, enough with that. The image of his body 'crucified' in Time Square is enough for him, thank you, Brain.

Right now, Peter stood, staring at the tree before him, at the angel, and wondering why there were always women angels on the top of the tree. He'd never heard of a female angel, not once. Yet they were always on the evergreen tree in your living room. He found that odd.

Sylar was in the kitchen, contemplating whether or not he could follow instructions well enough to make the Jell-O cookies Angela so desperately wanted. He could hear Peter mumble to himself in the den, something about angels and women and…dear God, he better not be thinking about bringing that deaf girl here! Seriously, he had enough with all the missing girlfriends Peter's had. Honestly, who leaves a girlfriend in an alternate timeline that's about to collapse on itself?

Sylar winced. Okay, he's gonna stop listening to drunk Angela. She's forcing her own opinions on his brain.

Peter, wondering what the hell Sylar was doing in his—no, no, it hasn't been yours since you moved out, it's your mother's—kitchen, turned away from the twinkling lights and ornaments to shove his hands in his pockets and poke his head in the doorway.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting. Maybe burglary or Sylar drowning himself in eggnog, or maybe Sylar is beating his head in after listening to his drunken mother ramble on about Peter's love life. The last seemed more probable.

He was wrong.

Undeniably, irrefutably, completely and utterly, totally wrong.

Sylar was, in fact, wearing and apron and glaring at the mixer, which apparently was stuck on the 'high' setting and some red liquidy thing was spilling out.

"How the hell are you supposed to thicken this stuff?" Sylar muttered, rummaging through the ingredients he set out. "I'm beginning to think this isn't the full recipe…" At that moment a large splash of red liquid skipped merrily over the rim of the bowl, and onto Sylar's head.

Sylar gasped, shooting straight up, hitting his head on the counter, and squinting as the red, sticky substance poured into his face.

Peter, oddly enough, did not laugh at this spectacle. He didn't chuckle, smirk, giggle, or smile. Instead, he remained perfectly stoic, leaning against the doorframe and watching the show.

Sylar, meanwhile, had begun to make gagging noise as the red invaded his mouth, along with many expletives and groans that will be left out of this story but certainly made Peter's eyebrow raise. The most prominent word, however, was 'sour'.

Finally, fed up, Sylar pulled the plug on the machine, turned the sink on, and scrubbed his face thoroughly while moaning about all the lotion he'd had to put in his hair again. Peter decided now would be the best time for comment.

"What are you doing?"

Sylar spun about, accidentally having the hem of his pink, floral apron catch on the knob for the cabinet and nearly falling. Peter remained quiet as Sylar steadied himself.

"I, uh," Sylar made a grand sweeping gesture with his hand. "Holiday baking."

Peter nodded. They remained quiet for a moment, until Sylar cleared his throat. Peter looked up questioningly.

"How long were you, uh, standing there?"

Peter thought for a moment before shrugging. "Little while. Somewhere around you trying to figure out how to thicken the Jell-O cookies."

Sylar flushed. Peter, not often seeing him flustered, was fascinated by this. He knew Sylar's demeanor had changed a couple days after he started staying, that he seemed less confident and more…submissive, Peter supposed was the word. He thought nothing of it but…Sylar blushing? His whole face a shade of red was oddly pleasing to Peter. He liked making him blush, he found. He had also liked making Nathan blush…

And had he not seen Sylar—well, then he was Gabriel—blush ever so momentarily when he went to take Sylar's power? Had he not thought it was a bit pleasing to see? Peter shuffled slightly, a bit uncomfortable. He could still recall the feelings he had when Sylar was believed to be Peter and Nathan's brother.

First, anger. Then reluctantly acceptant, maybe even happy. Because then…Sylar had hope, and Peter could see he wasn't simply a murderous, blood-seeking villain. He actually wanted...family.

Peter sighed. Maybe this once…he could pretend they weren't a deranged family of sickos and that Sylar was actually his biological brother….just…only for a day.

"You better clean that up before mom gets home." And he walked away.

The moral of this story, dear children, is not about serial killers or telekinetic abilities. It is not about family or never letting your mother get into the alcohol or women angels as tree-toppers. The moral of this story…is never, ever, ever make Jello cookies without supervision. Seriously. Don't.

It's like disaster city. Or, at the very least, make sure you have the _full_ recipe.

Okay, Sylar, enough.

No! That was a terrible day, I still have nightmares!

The moral of the story, kids, is don't travel with girlfriends. They totally mess everything up.

Peter, Sylar!

Sorry, mom.

Sorry, mom.

No, the moral of the story is $$!% !#%#! *#.

Sylar, go get the gag.

You go get the—

Sylar!

Fine.

Right. Anyways. Merry Christmas to all, and please don't travel with girlfriends, have the full recipe when cooking, and have a Happy New Year.

And Merry Christmas to Petrelli Heiress, we hope you enjoyed your belated present.


End file.
